


Second Hand Smoke

by deborahaha



Category: Crewniverse
Genre: GTAV AU, GTAV Crossover, i really don't know lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deborahaha/pseuds/deborahaha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'd like to begin by saying I think I have dropped Plan: Mirage. I prejacked, thought I could finish it, but I can't, so I'm sorry. This is originally supposed to be for my 700 follower special on Tumblr, so thanks to all who have followed me!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. In The Beginning, prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to begin by saying I think I have dropped Plan: Mirage. I prejacked, thought I could finish it, but I can't, so I'm sorry. This is originally supposed to be for my 700 follower special on Tumblr, so thanks to all who have followed me!

   The sun shone on, even though on the inside, he felt nothing but a thunderstorm. The grass was warm under his touch, soft and comforting. For May, it was quite nice. Flowers were in mid bloom, or maybe it was the resurrection of the decaying daisies he had bought and placed weeks ago, he didn’t bother guessing.

   He looked up from the grass, his gaze sending nothing but hatred in front of him. He felt his throat close up again. 

   He heard a soft voice speak from behind him. It sounded hesitant, as if afraid they were interrupting him. 

   “Luke, you…you can’t run from your problems. Aunt Tanya is really worried about you, you know…” They trailed off. 

   He didn’t bother looking behind to see who it was. 

   “I told you not to follow me, Bella. And don’t call me Luke.” His voice was broken. He had almost forgotten the last time he had spoken. 

  His sister sighed. “If I can’t call you Luke, you can’t call me Bella.” 

   His fingers clenched around the grass underneath him, ripping them out by the roots. “Fine, _Isabella_ ,  go home.” He spat angrily. 

   “You have no right to say that to me, this is _our mother’s grave_ , asswipe!” She yelled back with equal fury. 

   Lucas felt his jaw clench in anger. He wanted to retort to her statement, but he couldn’t. He knew, deep down, she was right. He faintly registered her movement, and her small frame crouching beside him. 

   “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” She guessed in the faintest whisper.

   All anger and fury had immediately left his body. He nodded solemnly. “Yeah.” 

   She swallowed loudly. “Leave…leave Los Santos? Where will you go?” 

   Lucas shook his head. “No, not Los Santos. Just leave you guys for a while.” Not once had he moved his gaze from his mother’s grave. He found, when he sat there, he couldn’t. He couldn’t move his head or his body, he even found it hard to blink. The image of the grave stone forever imbedded to the back of his eyelids every time he shut them. 

   “Forever?” Her voice was barely a breathe of a whisper. Lucas knew he had hurt her deeply, but he couldn’t stand another minute to be around them anymore. 

   “I’m not sure yet.” He mumbled. 

   “What will you do? Where will you stay? Will you call me every once and a while? I can call my friend Antonio, maybe he’ll let you stay there, that way I can still see you. I know Aunt Tanya can be a handful sometimes, but she still loves you. _We_ still love you. I know-“ She was rambling in panic. Lucas tried to listen, but she kept going on, and he didn’t want her to worry. 

   “Isabella, stop.” His words cut her off mid-sentence. “I’ll be fine. It’s going to be okay.” 

   It took a lot of willpower for him to stand up and move away from the gravesite, but he did. He stood, towered over his crouching sibling. 

   He spared one last sympathetic glance at her. He suddenly felt guilty. This wasn’t her fault, and yet she was baring the consequence. She had to deal with not only their mother’s loss, but also his own disappearance. But he couldn’t back down. Not yet, at least. There was a lot of things Lucas had to clear up before he returned to Isabella and Aunt Tanya. 

   He began to walk away. He found himself walking slower, almost stopping, when he heard the muffled sobs of Isabella from behind him. But not even the tears of his little sister could stop him now. He knew what he had to do. He knew it had to be done. 

   What he didn’t know, is what he had to do to get there. 


	2. I Can Move Mountains, I Can Work A Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another update! Thanks to everyone who left a Kudos, it really means a lot to me! I wasn't going to update since, well, uh you know, but I feel sort of bad to everyone who was excited to read this, so here we go, chapter 1! I have about 4,000 written words after this point, and I'm trying to stay on top of that, so I can keep up with regular updates, but with school and all, no promises. That's all I have to say.  
> Michael is probably OOC for a bit cause I'm a piece of shit. Oh well.

The Yellow Jack Inn was the only bar Lucas wanted to go to. He knew well Blaine County was quite a ways away from midtown Los Santos, but there was no other bar he would rather go to than the Yellow Jack. 

Not wanting to catch a bus, not wanting to walk either, he took a taxi. The cab driver was less than pleased to drive all the way out to Blaine County, but it was clear his mood perked when the total came to just over $200. 

Being nearly eleven thirty at night, the streets were practically deserted. Sand grazed across the streets with the warm wind and into the starry night, the air smelling of an odd mixture between spring, road kill, and rotting alcohol. Lucas breathed in the stench. 

The Yellow Jack was bursting with shitty country music and drunk hillbillies, the ground surrounding the bar vibrating with the music and the slurred yelling. Without a second thought, Lucas walked into the overcrowded bar. 

One man of many stood out to Lucas. He looked far too classy to be in a run down, shitty excuse for a bar, a high-classed, expensive suit complimenting his greying brown hair. He was slumped over the bar counter, a cup of what looked to be, scotch in his hand. 

He didn’t know what got him to sit next to the man by the counter, but he did. Once he sat down, Lucas took an educated guess that the classy man he saw from the doorway, was actually a drunk business man probably wanting to escape his family. 

The bartender shot a disapproving look at Lucas, and then poured him a tall glass of cheap beer. Lucas smiled sheepishly at the familiar bartender, sliding a ten dollar bill across the counter.

“Whats ‘er name, kid?” the man next to him slurred.

Lucas blinked in confusion. If he was on the run, he should use a different name, shouldn’t he? “Luc-um, Speedy. You can call me Speedy.” te swallowed nervously. He inwardly cringed at his on-the-spot nickname he had given himself. The man may be drunk, but he was no fool. 

“Speedy, hah!” the man yelled in a barking laughter. “‘Yer on tha run, aren’t ya, kid?”

More blinking, more nervous swallowing. “I-I, um…” 

“Lemme tell ya somethin’, _kid_ ,” all thoughts Speedy had of this man being professional had gone down the toilet with his vomit the next morning. “Yeh can’t run in Los Santos, not with no experience, tha’ is.” 

Speedy blinked again. He found his words seemed to have got caught in his throat, along with the nausea of being so close to this man with such a strong alcoholic breath. 

“Ma’ name is Michael, Michael De Santa.” He gave his own slurred introduction. 

“Oh, uh, um…Hi, Michael. Nice to meet you.” 

“I’ll tell you a lil’ somethin’ about _runnin_ ’, kid.” he slurred, and in his drunken state, told quite a over-emphasized story of him, his friend Trevor and Bradley, and their memorable misadventures that somehow brought Bradley to die, but instead of Bradley to be buried, it was Michael, even though he hadn’t _really_ died. Speedy found it quite hard to keep up with the story-that-never-ended, especially with the narrator being intoxicated with more than a half a dozen cups of scotch, but Speedy managed. 

When the story finally concluded, Michael spoke loudly, “And _that_ , is how you run, kid.” it looked like a flash of soberness crossed his face, his eyes widened, his face darkened, and he glared at Speedy. A glare filled with such force, such hatred, such regret, Speedy found himself nearly falling off of the bar stool. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that.” Michael gritted through his teeth. 

Within a matter of seconds, Speedy’s arm was in the tight grips of Mr. De Santa, and he was being pulled out of the rowdy bar. De Santa kept pulling Speedy, out the door, past the cars, through the parking lot, and finally, throwing him down behind the bar. 

Stars filled Speedy’s vision, and he felt warmer than he had before, a particular spot near the front of his head the warmest, spreading liquid warmth down the rest of his face. It took a few moments to realize it was blood that was making his face so warm, and his head felt hot because Michael must have thrown him headfirst into the wall of the bar. 

Speedy turned to face Mr. De Santa, hoping to find those hatred filled eyes, but to come eye to eye with a pistol. Speedy swallowed. This was way more than he had bargained for. 

“ _Who do you work for_.” Michael spat, the pistol shaking in his angry grip. Although it was in question format, it was clearly a demand. 

Speedy lifted his hands slowly behind his head. “N-no one, I work for no one!” 

Speedy almost found it embarrassing how he had gone from tough guy his younger sister looked up to and loved, to stammering, scared kid who only wanted his mother back. 

“You’re _lying_.” he yelled, the pistol shoved closer to his face. 

Speedy didn’t know what he had done to deserve this treatment. Sure, the information Mr. De Santa had told him was…illegal information, one could say, but that didn’t mean he had to kill him. That was a bit of a stretch. 

“N-no! I’m not, I swear!” Speedy nearly shouted. The numbing fear of being faced with a pistol is something he knew he would never forget anytime soon. 

Michael growled, “There’s _no way_ some kid from Los Santos would be able to get that story out of me.”

Speedy noticed his hands were shaking visibly. “Bu-but you told me, willingly. I didn’t even have to ask, I swear!” his entire body shook with a violent sob. “Please don’t kill me.” 

Mr. De Santa looked to be having an internal argument with himself. His grip on the pistol loosened, but remained pointed at Speedy. His aging face was no longer creased with anger, but with confusion. After a few conflicting seconds, he lowered his pistol to his side, his expression no longer inferring hatred and anger, but apologetic and bordering friendly. 

“Aw fuck, just taking in all the strays, aren’t you, Michael?” he mumbled to himself, sticking his gun somewhere behind him. With less force, he grabbed Speedy by the arm again, and pulled him back to the front of the Yellow Jack. 

“Who ya’ running from, kid?” Michael asked him, tugging Speedy towards one of the vehicles parked off to the side. 

Speedy was almost given whiplash by the sudden change of attitude, but replied nonetheless. “Uh, no one. Trying to find, more like it.” he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. 

Mr. De Santa gave him a look that vaguely represented ‘I told you my story, now it’s your turn’. 

Speedy didn’t think he could sneak his way out now. Mr. De Santa was already pushing him into his leather seated car (with heated seats). He grimaced once the door was shut behind him. First Michael wanted to kill him, and now he was taking him for a ride in his black Tailgater. 

“Explain or I leave you to rot on the side of the freeway.” Michael threatened him. Speedy gulped. Nope. There was no way he could lie himself out of this one. 

“Er, well, there’s…there’s this guy I need to find. He sort of, um…killed my dad, I guess.” his explanation was vague, and it seemed like Michael caught on to that, but didn’t press. 

Instead of listening to his gut, which was practically yelling at Speedy to stop talking, he continued on. “I promised my mother I’d kill him, but she died about a month ago. Now, I sort of, well, have to.” 

Michael sighed loudly, picking up speed nearing the interstate. “Don’t take this the wrong way, kid, but…” he paused, looked to be pulling his sentence together in the least offending way possible. “Getting revenge isn’t always the best. It always leaves you wanting more, never being satisfied.” he took a quick intake of breath, as if he was remembering what his revenge felt like. “Give up, kid. You are too young to be getting involved in something as extreme as this.” 

Speedy felt as if he had just been dropped in a pool of ice. No one has ever told him to ‘give up’, not his mom, not Aunt Tanya, no one. He didn’t like it. 

“No.” he gritted. “I won’t give up. Not after…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it. It felt too soon, the wound still fresh. “Not after my mom.” he whispered through his teeth, seething with anger. 

Speedy heard Mr. De Santa sigh, but said nothing more. The ride out of Blaine County to Los Santos was long and quiet. 

He barely recognized the fact that it was quarter after three in the morning. Speedy hardly realized it had gotten that late. The freeway was almost empty, only a few semis and the odd sedan driving by them. It was almost calming, the only thing keeping him tense was Mr. De Santa, he still couldn’t stop thinking about the gun pointed at his head. 

Mr. De Santa must have been reading his mind, because he said, “If you want to do this, you’ll have to toughen up.” 

Speedy acknowledged his comment, but did not reply. 

 


End file.
